


Health Benefits

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I just don't think the kitchen is the place to be talking about dicks, all right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Health Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "papaya".
> 
> * * *

They've gotten into a routine. Saturday is grocery day. 

Before Matt moved in, John figured the kid subsisted on a steady diet of Red Bull and Chinese takeout. He envisioned arguments about cooking a healthy meal once in a damn while, pictured Matt using about a thousand words to explain why ordering in a pizza was the best and most viable alternative to broiling a good sirloin. Maybe he even pictured Matt pouting a little when he stood his ground (and possibly, getting some really good make-up sex out of the deal.) Instead he's filling his fridge with shit like bean sprouts and organic arugula. Detox shakes from the health food store. Tofu burgers, for fucks sake. 

"Can't you even pretend to eat like a normal person?" he mutters.

Matt blinks up at him. "Huh?"

John scowls down at the bottle in his hand, gives it a shake. "You ever heard of orange juice? Good, old fashioned orange juice. Staple of every morning meal. Good for growing boys."

"Papaya is better for you," Matt says, reaching out to snag it and stow it in the fridge next to the rest of the bland, tasteless shit he fills the grocery cart with every Saturday. "It helps with digestion, it lowers cholesterol—"

"Don't tell me," John interrupts, "you've got 'reams of data' on this stuff."

"—and that's not even mentioning the benefits of arginine," Matt finishes with a wiggle of his bushy eyebrows. 

John tells himself he doesn't want to know. He holds firm to this thought through the placement of the flaxseed and figs in the cupboard, the storing of the lychee fruit and the kale in the crisper, the pouring of the granola into one of the airtight containers. Finally, he caves. Damn kid.

"Arginine?"

"You did mention growing boys," Matt says, as if they haven't spent the last five minutes in complete silence. "Arginine is a natural enzyme, right, that increases male…. uh… virility. See John, it relaxes the muscles around the penis which then increases blood flow—"

"All right, all right."

"—which then means that the penis is able to—"

"I got it!" John says hastily. "Jesus, leave that talk for the bedroom, kid."

Matt snorts. "You're kidding, right?" 

John scowls down at the six pack of Bud in his hand, considers popping one of the tabs right now if they're gonna be having this kind of discussion, eleven a.m. or not. "I just don't think the kitchen is the place to be talking about dicks, all right?"

"No, really. You're… kidding, right?" Matt says. He leans back on the counter, crosses his arms at his chest. Cocks his head and looks at John that way he does when John talks about taping something on the VCR or listening to one of his Fogerty albums.

John sighs. "Drop it, kid."

"You're telling me you've never had sex in the kitchen?" Matt continues, absolutely not dropping it at all. Because that's what Matt does. John reminds himself that he actually loves the kid. It helps. "Never just grabbed someone and threw her down on the table and ravished the shit out of her?"

John has a momentary flash of Holly, that first year they were married, and that little dive in the village, and the formica table slamming against the wall. He shakes his head and quickly plasters a neutral expression on his face, because thinking about fucking your ex-wife when your current boyfriend is the type who studies every look you give and stores them in something he calls a Mental McClane Mood Folder is basically a recipe for disaster.

"You did!" Matt crows.

Too late. 

"I mean it, Matty," he says, trying his best growl. "Drop it."

"You know," Matt says, again ignoring him – and why does that persistence turn him on a little, damn it – and glancing over his shoulder, "our table is pretty sturdy."

When Matt looks back at him, flips his hair out of his eyes and licks his lips, that faded, sepia-toned flash of Holly is very quickly replaced with a Technicolor shot of Matt himself, spread out on their battered old table, his chest flushed and his legs spread. He should feel annoyed that he's truly that pathetic, that all it takes is a pair of eyes peering at him through overgrown bangs and a truly pitiable come-hither look to get him there, but he's too busy gauging just how fast he can get Matt out of his jeans.

"Get over there," he says. This time his growl has an entirely different tone, and he hopes Matt is categorizing it correctly. He's got no worries there, because Matt just laughs, is already stripping off his shirt when John says, "Wait."

Matt turns with a quizzical look, and John grins. 

"Hand me that papaya juice."


End file.
